irlhood, finer womanhood, than could have come to her by any
other association.

She read Stevenson through in a week, and then began on Ruskin; for her
thoughtful mind, starved so long of food that it needed, craved solid
things, and Judy, who knew much of pictures and paintings, found in
Ruskin's theories a great deal that delighted and interested her.

"You'll never get through," said Anne, with a dismayed glance at the
long rows of brown volumes high up on the shelves. "I don't like
anything but stories, and Ruskin preaches awfully."

"You ought to like him, then," said Judy, wickedly, "you good little
Anne."

"Oh, don't," protested Anne, reproachfully, "don't call me that, Judy."

"Well, bad little Anne, then," said Judy, composedly, from the top of
the step-ladder, where she was examining the titles of the books and
enjoying herself generally.

"You're such a tease," said Anne with a sigh.

"And you are so serious, little Annekins," and Judy smiled down at her.

"I like Ruskin," she announced, later. "He's a little hard to
understand sometimes, but he knows a lot about art. I am going to take
up my drawing again. He says that youth is the time to do things, and
a girl ought not to fritter away her time."

"No, indeed," said Anne, virtuously. "Only don't get too tired, Judy."

But it was Anne who was tired, before Judy's enthusiasm wore itself
out, for she was pressed into service as a model, and she served in
turn as A Blind Girl, A Dancing Girl, A Greek Maiden, Rebecca at the
Well, Marguerite, and Lorelei.

The last was an inspiration. Anne perched on a rock around which the
breakers dashed appropriately, with her hair down, and with filmy
garments fluttering in the wind, combed her golden locks in the heat of
the blazing sun.

"It's broiling hot out here, Judy," she complained as that
indefatigable artist sat on the beach with her easel before her, in a
blue work-apron, and with a dab of charcoal on her nose.

"Oh, you look just lovely, Anne," Judy assured her, with the cruel
indifference of genius. "You're just lovely. I think this is the best
I have done yet. Think what a picture you will make."

"Think how my nose will peel," mourned Anne, forlornly.

"Die schoenste Jungfrau sitzet
Dort oben wunderbar,
Ihr goldnes Geschmeide blitzet,
Sie kaemmt ihr gold'nes Haar."

sang Judy, whose residence abroad had made her familiar with many
folk-songs.

Sie kaemmt es mit gold'n